


Curiously Botanical

by mrasaki



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crack, Holiday, Humor, M/M, non-christian-specific holiday celebrations, non-homicidal plants, sulu is very sure this time this is not a sex pollen fic, this is not a sex pollen fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim knew, from the moment Bones opened his mouth, that Bones was going to say that this was an incredibly, horribly bad idea, and insert the word 'goddammit' at least twice. Holiday fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiously Botanical

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/space_wrapped/profile)[**space_wrapped**](http://community.livejournal.com/space_wrapped/), day 22.

Jim knew, from the moment Bones opened his mouth, that Bones was going to say that this was an incredibly, _horribly_ bad idea, and insert the word _goddammit_ at least twice.

Which was why Jim sometimes didn’t sweat the small stuff and just did them without consulting him, because no matter what Bones said, Jim did have a care for his best friend's blood pressure. (Spock, though, he did sometimes tell, because watching Spock's blood pressure climb was just too much fun to be resisted.)

So Jim headed Bones off at the pass. "You've outdone yourself this time, Mister Sulu," he grinned and clapped Sulu on the back. "It’s positively, absatively faboo."

Bones and Spock were staring at him. They could’ve been twins: the same look of disbelief, the same left-over-right crossed arms, the same hipshot posture, even the same eyebrows. The epic, epic eyebrows. "You don't need to look like that," he said to them both, angling himself slightly for Uhura’s benefit, who was doing a mirror version of the two off to the side. "Don't you trust our pilot and resident botanist?"

Sulu had a sheepish smile starting on his face at the captain’s unexpected praise, which turned to alarm as Jim grabbed his face with one hand and pinched it so his lips pooched out and exclaimed, "Don't you trust this face? Lookit this face!"

And then came the flood. "Are you out of your goddamned _mind_?" demanded Bones just as Spock chimed in with a Vulcan variation on the same question in the form of, "As usual, you have ignored the standard protocols regarding quarantine of any and all unfamiliar flora and fauna—"

Then they all jumped in.   
Sulu: "I did all the tests and it's fine, I'm telling you—"   
Uhura: "'Faboo' is not a word, Captain, and neither is 'absa—' 'abso—'—"   
Spock: "I confess I do not entirely understand the traditions behind the Earth holiday season, but—"   
Bones: "—but it's _pink_. In what universe does pink stand for—"   
Chekov: "I like pink! In Russia—"   
Sulu: "I _know_ it's pink, but it’s kinda all we could get, so what?"

"Hey!" They quieted and, as one, glared at Jim. Jim sat back in his chair. "One: We did quarantine and test it within an inch of its life. Two: 'faboo' is absatively a word," he held up his hand to stave off protest, "And three: it's not _pink_, it's fuchsia. With gold flowers. And four: Christmas colors can be whatever the captain—which is me, by the way—wants it to be, because _I am your god_. I'd make you kiss my Academy ring, but you know, germs, and Bones would have a conniption."

It was rather unfortunate that his crew knew him so well; a mutual exchange of glances, a kerfluffle and a hypospray later, and Jim was packed off to Medical for a full workup.

The fuchsia and gold tree was sent back down to the lab for further testing.

~oOo~

 

The crew thought Jim was sulking. He insisted he was just thinking, because manly captains _do not sulk_, but he could tell by their sidelong glances that he wasn’t particularly convincing. Truth to tell, because in his head-space he didn’t have to be manly and shit, he was a little sad. Making up words and being in a good enough holiday mood to crack jokes was, apparently, enough to get someone committed nowadays. Was it really so much to ask his crew to get on board with the spirit of the season? It was true, as the senior staff reminded him, that the Earth winter celebrations weren’t as formalized as they’d been 300 years ago, what with the mixing of hundreds of Earth cultures and the influx of alien races, all with vastly differing traditions that didn't necessarily coincide with the Earth winter season. It was also true, as Spock explained very logically, that it was almost moot to have them out in deep space in absentia of seasons, months, weeks, or even _days_, but as Jim just as painstakingly explained, it wasn’t about that anyway.

He was back on the bridge, because there was nothing wrong with him. The small potted tree was also back on the bridge, sitting next to his chair, for the exact same reason.

Bones was standing behind him. He'd been coming to the bridge more and more lately, tricorder in hand, his sharp eyes scanning everyone and muttering under his breath about sex pollen and how he was too damn old for the gymnastics that had occurred the last time. Sulu was carefully making an attempt at avoiding Bones’ attention, hunching over his console as if he could disappear into it, his expression varying between guilty, because the last time _was_ his fault (sorta, depending on who you asked) and vindicated. Jim would’ve told him not to worry, because in actuality Bones was up on the bridge mostly for Jim’s benefit, his apologetic concern like a warm weight on the back of Jim’s head, but Jim thought he’d let Sulu squirm a little more. The last time _had_ been more than a little...awkward.

The small shrub, a shade of fuchsia that shaded into burgundy in some lights and soft pink in others, was only about three feet tall—but, as Jim took inordinate pleasure in observing every hour on the dot to Bones, nicely proportioned into proper Christmas tree shape. It had soft, velvety needles and the slightest hint of gold flower buds, still sheened with pink fuzz, at the tip of each branch. Someone—Sulu, Jim thought, because Sulu was the only other one who’d demonstrated even a smidge of holiday spirit—had found a tiny silver replica of the Enterprise, strung it on a string, and hung it from one of the branches.

Jim had named it Beatrice Frankfurter I, mostly just to watch Spock's eyebrow go into an uncontrollable twitch. One day, when Jim retired, he was going to write a memoir entitled, "How to Break a Vulcan's Mind: The Life of James Tiberius Kirk." Well, okay—he’d admit it; he also just liked the name Beatrice. If he ever had a daughter—well.

Despite the inauspicious beginning, Jim could already tell—or maybe it was just wishful thinking—the rest of the crew was beginning to thaw. Chekov cooed at Bea every time he turned around to give Jim the latest report, which was slightly irritating but Jim tolerated with a magnanimous smile. Uhura still looked at her with deep suspicion, but Jim had caught her more than once brushing her hand across the needles and bending just slightly for a whiff of the rich, redolent scent of cinnamon and honeysuckle that hung around Bea in a palpable mist. The hard cases—Spock and Bones—still refused to acknowledge Bea’s existence except to give Jim long, evaluating stares, obviously ready to either nerve-pinch or hypospray him into a coma at the first sign of dementia.

All in all, things were going well for the Enterprise’s first holiday season. Jim was satisfied. He had his Christmas tree.

Now, if only he could talk them into Secret Santa.

 

~oOo~

 Turned out, the tree was indeed not what it seemed.

Jim was in the middle of sucking Bones' cock when his gaze fell on Bea. He was drooling onto his fist and quite happily making a mess of things as Bones reclined in the command chair, head thrown back, throat working as he tried to swallow and gulp for air at the same time, thighs tense and shaking.

Jim went, "Hmmm?" then lifted his head. "Does Bea look different to you?"

Bones made a choked noise in the back of his throat that sounded a lot like, "For fuck's sake, _don't stop!_" and thrust frantically in the direction of Jim's mouth before he bit down on a sharp breath and came. Jim turned his head back just in time to get shot straight in the eye.

In the ensuing medical emergency, in which Jim's eye swelled and needed to be flushed out in sickbay by a very out-of-temper doctor whose vitriol was only kept in check by his equally vehement wish to _not_ have Nurse Chapel and the rest of the medical staff come and investigate, Jim almost forgot what had distracted his attention in the first place.

~oOo~

 

Jim was staring at Bea. She seemed almost luminescent in the glow of the consoles, her fuchsia dotted with fully formed buds like constellations of stars, the Enterprise ornament sailing across her brightly colored galaxy. “Something's different about you,” he said to her softly, and he could’ve sworn that her velvety branches swayed towards him at the sound of his voice. He was thinking of that…debacle the other day. He’d noticed something, hadn’t he? What had it been?

Jim had a photographic memory, but—but. He’d been more than a little distracted at the time, focused on Bones’ perfect cock and the soft cursing moans Bones had made, the harsh, breathy words of love and want, the tender fingers he had run along Jim’s jawline, the spastic twitch to those elegantly tapered surgeon’s fingers as Jim swallowed around him.

_What had Jim seen?_

Jim let his eyes unfocus and his mind drift. It was a technique he’d learned from Spock, not really meditation but memory by association, allowing any thought to float unimpeded through his mind and attracting other thoughts to it like a magnet:   
Bones. The fleshy head of his cock in Jim’s mouth, the tangy taste of him coating Jim’s tongue, his scent in Jim’s nostrils. The helpless noises he’d made, rounded curses like endearments. The shift of muscle and tendon under Jim’s roving hands as they slid up his thighs. The breathless twist in Jim’s gut of seeing Bones in _his_ chair, their positions reversed and Jim on his knees in front of him, Bones’ hands restlessly combing through Jim’s curls and urging him with involuntary shifts and hitched breath to go faster. The flash of gold in Jim’s peripheral vision.

Wait—flash? Of gold?

He’d turned to see—Bea had been budding. Not in the subtle, unseen way of most flowering plants, totally unnoticed until one came to look at it again an interval of time later, but—_exploding_. Like popcorn. Pop, pop, little flares of gold swelling into existence, almost in time with Bones’ breathy moans.

Jim stared at Bea, a suspicion flaring cold in his gut. Nah, it couldn’t be. They’d _done_ all the standard Starfleet proscribed tests, dammit, and even some Sulu, still smarting from the last time, had invented on the fly. Could they have missed something?

He was loath to dismiss it with _that’s crazy_, because _crazy_ was a relative term on the Enterprise, and he’d learned long ago that _crazy_ didn’t mean _impossible_. But—but—

~oOo~

 

“Come on,” Jim hissed.

“Oh, for the love of— Excuse my decidedly unprofessional assessment, Jim, but this didn’t work out too damn well the last time.”

“Then aim better _this_ time,” Jim told him. “Work with me here, Bones. Teamwork and all that.”

“Teamwork my _ass_,” Bones snarled, tugged forward by the hand out of the turbolift onto the bridge.

“That’s the point. Knew you’d get into the spirit of things,” Jim grinned, and shoved him into the chair before Bones could come up with any more protests. “I just wanna try something.”

“We already tried this—” Bones began, but the sentence ended on a _whuff_ as his fly went down with a burring rasp. Pavlovian reaction, Jim grinned to himself, already working Bones out through the part in his underwear, and the only time Bones ever really shut up and quit bitching, because Jim was the motherfucking _man_. Now, if he could only train Bones to forego the baggy old-man undies when Bones _knew_ Jim was requesting his presence on the bridge specifically for extracurricular activities. But Bones was a stubborn cuss, and he was determined to never let Jim have his own way if he could help it. Jim didn’t point out that Bones couldn’t help it most of the time, and Bones pretended not to notice him very chivalrously not pointing it out, so the universe continued on its even keel.

“I just wanna see—” Jim said, not finishing in favor of letting Bones’ cock slide past his lips and down his throat, and saving himself some explanation that would likely result in the utilization of tricorders and the overenthusiastic application of hyposprays, and _not_ sex.

Bones stared down at him with fevered, glazed eyes. His hands clenched on the armrests, the synth-leather creaking under his fingertips, as Jim played his tongue over the large vein and ridges along the underside in that way that always reduced Bones to an incoherent stutter. He let his nose bump into the crisp hairs at the base then slid up, following the trail up to the bellybutton, feeling Bones suck in a shaking breath that exploded out of him in an involuntary laugh as Jim dipped his tongue in; that Bones was ticklish was a fact Jim always found irresistible and he teased him, counting the seconds before impatient fingers pushed him back down, rubbing his stubble along the pale plane of Bones' heaving stomach as Bones squirmed.

God, he’d never tell Bones as much, but Jim was fucking addicted to Bones’ cock, every bump and ridge, the faint, tiny dark birthmark like the dot of a pen to the left of the slit. Bones was so honest in his reactions and it was like a powerful drug, simultaneously humbling and euphoric, knowing he could make Bones disintegrate just like this every time.

Jim pulled off and he climbed into Bones’ lap, hooking his knees over the arms of the captain’s chair and checking that the keypads were locked because a ship-wide porno broadcast was _not_ standard operating procedure, thank you very much, relaxed relationship between captain and crew notwithstanding. He’d prepped himself in advance; gamma shift meant the bridge was set purely to automation, but there was no guarantee someone in senior command wouldn’t come by to check on things. Jim had a great crew, all with an impeccable work ethic, but it made sex on the bridge a tricky, thrilling business. They needed to hurry.

They both groaned as Jim sank down. Bones was still, obviously holding back from just grabbing and thrusting into Jim with a clapping push because he was a chivalrous bastard like that, instead mouthing wet bites at Jim’s throat, hands guiding Jim down until he was in to the hilt.

Jim paused for a moment, savoring the incredible look on Bones' face. Bones smoothed a trembling hand over Jim’s cheek. “You crazy, beautiful bastard,” he murmured hoarsely, and Jim laughed, long thighs flexing as he started to move, each hitch rubbing his cock against Bones’ belly, leaving streaks gleaming across the pale skin. Bones gripped Jim’s buttocks in each capable hand, supporting him, and buried his face into the crook of Jim’s neck, leaving damp trails against heated flesh that cooled in the circulated air and sent shivers shocking down Jim’s spine.

Jim barely remembered just in time. He tore himself away from mindlessly grinding his cheek into Bones’ thick hair to see that it was happening, that he’d been right; Bea was—ah—Bea was budding, tiny, lovely points of gold popping into existence, faster and faster as the pleasure swelled in and through Jim, his hips bucking forward in escalating tempo—

“Happy holidays,” Jim whispered to Bones, his orgasm rolling through him like thunder over an empty plain.

~oOo~

 

So now Jim knew. He didn’t need his science team in the form of Spock or Sulu or even Bones to tell him, because Jim had earned top marks in Argumentation and Logic courses at Academy the hard way and _not_ on his back, no matter what Spock might think of Jim’s unorthodox methods. His deduction was also pretty much confirmed by the various Klingon ships Jim had the privilege to kick back over the border whenever they poked their toes into Federation space to see if anyone was paying attention.

Of all the species known to the Federation, Klingons were among Jim’s least favorite. They were bad-tempered and arrogant, and all seemed to have advanced degrees in wrathful glaring and were pretty much immune to charm. _Jim’s_ charm. And, it turned out, they hated Bea, who they could see in hi-def sitting in proud pomp next to Jim’s chair. She seemed to offend them on a fundamental level, which confirmed to Jim that Bea was a pretty all-right addition to his crew. It wasn’t a difficult concept to grasp; Bea was soft and pretty and cuddly and _all_ the things one would never expect to associate with Klingons, like, _ever_. Jim would’ve bet that even Klingon babies came out wielding curvy daggers and biting the heads off kittens.

The rest of these frustrating encounters involved abuse of the word _Hew-man_, which got old right quick, some _As if your puny ship even deserves the honor of escorting us_ and a heavy dose of hideous cackling in the form of _Hoo hooo hoooo_. Maybe Jim'd use _Hew-man, you are beneath us, hoohoohoooo_ next time he was on the vidlink with Starfleet High Command and they told him _Sorry you feel that way, but make it work!_ the way they always did.

Jim politely refrained from replying to the Klingons with such witty repartee as _My ship is bigger than yours and can kick your bony asses six ways to Sunday, so nyah_, because Admiral Pike was a genius at Constitution-class motivational guilting and had somehow managed to impress upon Jim that antagonizing Klingons into all-out war was a no-no. But despite his best efforts at civility, and despite Spock shifting behind him and clearing his throat warningly throughout, the exchanges generally degenerated into Jim threatening to blow a hole in the Klingon ship unless they got their merry asses back over the DMZ. Fuck it all, they could insult Jim, the crew, but insult his _ship_ and insult _Bea_, and it was fucking _on_.

Fortunately, the Klingons usually backed off and sulked back to their territory, because unlike what the Starfleet propaganda vids made it out to be, having command was less about buxom alien babes and swashbuckling adventure and more—mostly—about mountains of soul-destroying paperwork. Jim hated paperwork. Blowing up a Klingon warbird? Satisfying, but so, _so_ not worth it. Maybe High Command had planned it that way. They were devious bastards like that.

So Jim’s diplomatic skills got a lot of exercise, and Bea stayed. She got noticeably brighter, more and more golden buds swelling into full flesh as time went on and Jim waged his campaign of Christmas cheer. Jim started playing a game, seeing how many buds would pop into existence each time he conspicuously squirreled little presents for the bridge crew under the tree (+3), or when he had the mess hall send little treats to the enlisted staff (+5), or he jammed his floppy, pointed red and white faux fur hat that he refused to tell Bones where in the world he found, on an unsuspecting person’s head (Scotty: +6, Chekov: +4, Uhura: +2, Sulu: +4, Spock: 0, Bones: -1), or even broke into holiday song.

It really wasn’t much by way of Christmas-cheer-making, but there was only so much he could do out in the depths of space and light-years away from the closest outpost, and generally, he made little headway. It wasn't as if he could just let everyone have a day off to party; they were a working starship, after all.

Truth to tell, Jim wasn’t exactly sure what it was he _should_ be doing. He was starting to have the sinking feeling that he was struggling upstream without a paddle, because aside from Chekov’s companionable adoration of Bea, and Sulu’s dutifully keeping Bea watered and trimmed, there wasn’t much change as far as a celebratory mood went. The crew seemed to appreciate Bea, sure—she was pretty and smelled nice and any plant on an otherwise antiseptic starship was valued—but their acceptance seemed divorced from what she was intended to _mean_. Jim wasn’t used to being ignored. He’d been prepared with a ready smile and glib remarks against exasperation, lectures, and even scoldings that bordered on insubordination, but this…complete non-reaction unsettled him more than he liked to admit.

Only Bea seemed to change, growing progressively more golden than fuchsia, her fragrance welling into a heady mix that made its way from the bridge into the turbolift and into the corridors of the ship. Positive feedback—if even from a shrub—did make waging a one-man holiday crusade easier, but it was from a _shrub_. It was discouraging, to say the least.

~oOo~

 

“What’m I doing wrong?” Jim complained to Bones. Bones had honed his tracking skills to a fine knife edge and had unerringly found Jim brooding in the mess hall, staring at the chess game he and Spock had been working on for the last few weeks. Bones propped his elbows up on the table and popped open the pudding he’d just swiped from Jim. “You’re losing,” he said helpfully, gesturing with his spoon at the chess board.

Jim scowled harder. He _knew_ he was losing this one, Spock practically having all the steps figured out from the get-go and just waiting for Jim to go through the motions. “I’m really trying hard, you know? And there’s zero appreciation.”

“Well. It hurts me deep inside to say it, but that pointy-eared hobgoblin _is_ better than you.”

“I’m not talking about chess,” he snapped, harsher than he meant to.

Bones rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you infant, I know that,” he said. He took a bite of the pudding and made a face at the vanilla taste that barely covered the chalky powder the pudding had been reconstituted from. “What the hell is this shit?”

“Serves you right for stealing my food,” Jim muttered, his mood darkening from slightly overcast to thundercloud. Of all the people he’d expected to be supportive—

Bones sighed. “Jim, you ever think that the crew just doesn’t want to celebrate what Uhura calls an ‘out-dated Euro-centric religious tradition imposed upon originally pagan rituals’? It’s culturally insensitive to Spock and all the other aliens on-board, et cetera.”

“Yeah, she told me that in the beginning.” Jim stared at the board, unseeing. Maybe he should just go for a scorched-earth strategy, taking down pawns left and right in a kamikaze run. It’d screw up Spock’s grand plan, at least. “Balls. Maybe she—you guys—are right.”

“You feeling okay, Jim?” Concern now in that drawled sentence, a heavy hand against Jim’s forehead, feeling for fever. Jim batted it away. “It isn’t like you to mope like this. What happened to the ‘I don’t believe in no-win scenarios and your Vulcan logic, Spock, bwahaha’ Jim Kirk?”

“The hell you looking all pleased for?” Jim growled. “Weren’t you trying to convince me to drop it just now?” He'd gone from glaring at Bones as if he was the root of all Jim's problems, to just staring at him.

Bones was looking actually kind of odd. Lowering brows and dancing hazel eyes just didn’t seem to go on Bones' lined face, but—but—Jim realized that Bones was not only looking pleased with himself, but that he seemed to be barely repressing what looked suspiciously like..._glee_. “The hell, Bones? Are _you_ feeling okay?”

“I never said that I agreed with Uhura,” Bones said, “At least, not completely,” and brought his other hand out from under the table, holding an elaborately wrapped and be-ribboned package. “Merry Christmas, Jim,” he added, gruffly.

They wound up in Bones’ quarters because it was closer to the mess hall than Jim’s. They were on the bed, breathing hard and sweaty and sticky in all the right places, crumpled gift-wrap everywhere, and the ribbon was wound around Jim’s head. Jim was playing with his brand new iPadd.

“What’s the point of wrapping something so carefully if you’re just going to go tearing it off?” Bones complained, balling up gift-wrap and bouncing it off Jim’s forehead.

Jim rolled over. “Look, Bones, it even does holographic messaging!”

“Yeah, I know, I bought it for you, remember? Where’s _my_ gift, you—”

Jim faltered for a moment, then, “Oh yeah, wait—wait—” the sound of paper crumpling, Jim pulling the ribbon off his head, and Bones raised an eyebrow. “Your dick doesn’t count as a—don’t wrap that!” He covered his face, groaning, “My lover is an infant, a total fucking infant,” as Jim pressed up against his side, something that distinctly felt paper-wrapped hard against his hip. “You didn’t,” he mumbled, not daring to look.

“Your actual gift’s under Bea,” Jim told him, and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss against the corner of his mouth. Bones returned it after a moment, a brief catch of warm lips, with a "Thank the universe for small favors." He tucked an arm under Jim’s head.

Jim nudged his forehead against Bones’ cheek, struggling against the sudden tears that prickled under his eyes. “Thanks,” he whispered after a long pause, his voice thick. Bones had to have planned this a long time ago; they hadn't docked at a fully-stocked Federation base in at least two months.

“Hey,” Bones said with some alarm, a thumb skating over the sharp angle of Jim’s cheekbone.

Jim was silent for a long time. Then, as if painfully pulled out of him, “I’ve never really had a Christmas, you know?”

“What?”

“I mean, I know no one really celebrates it anymore, but even just the winter holiday stuff—and family—my childhood kinda sucked.” Which was an understatement; Jim's childhood, to all intents and purposes, had involved a lot of metaphorical coal. With mom gone into space most of the time, a very dysfunctional home life, and then later nearly starving on Tarsus, things like the holiday season had more than a little fallen by the wayside, they'd just ceased to exist. “So I thought I could start a tradition on the Enterprise—not Christmas, maybe, but like a new beginning, something like that. And I figured the crew could use a little fun after the year we've had.” He shrugged. "Knew you guys had no sense of humor at all, but found out the hard way the Enterprise is like, the negative zone of fun." It was mostly Spock's fault; Spock might've only been half-Vulcan, but he was 100% killjoy.

Bones was silent, but Jim could feel his agitation thrumming like live wires under his skin as he processed the information. Jim reached up and patted him on the cheek. “You about to go into rage mode?” He waited for the explosion, tensing but also smiling a little, because there was a little childish part of him that reveled whenever Bones got righteously indignant just for his sake. No one had cared like that for Jim before, divorced of Jim’s fame or looks or pedigree.

He hadn’t expected Bones to sound so sad, instead. “Why didn’t you just tell me this in Academy?”

“Sounds kind of stupid, saying it out loud, doesn’t it?”

“Always knew you got a little weird in December, but— This why you were always running off to the closest bar in the winter and asking to have your face smashed in?” Bones turned his head and pressed a hard kiss that felt like a physical blow to Jim’s forehead. “Dammit, Jim!”

“Whatever. Too late now,” Jim said with forced cheer. He waved the iPadd in front of Bones’ face, a shiny, expensive distraction. “Hey look, it even lets me synchronize with that chess game in the mess.”

Bones stiffened and seemed about to argue, but then he shook his head silently, taking the iPadd out of Jim’s hand and squinting at it. “You should move your bishop,” he said at last, and Jim relaxed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Look,” Bones tapped on the screen, and the view zoomed. “—here—if you do that, and then you move your rook there—”

“Have you ever played against Spock?”

“Shut up and listen. Spock’ll have to move his queen to block, see? Then you harass him with your pawns. You’ll lose almost all your pieces, but it’ll drive Spock nuts.” He sounded grimly satisfied.

“Aggravating him is the only thing left in my pathetic, empty life, huh? Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bones.”

Bones bumped him with the jut of his chin, the huff of laughter barely discernible as a rumble under Jim’s cheek. “Uh huh. As if you play him for any other reason.”

Jim snorted, and felt Bones grin against his forehead before he sobered again. “Jim—”

Jim knew instantly what Bones was thinking, that he was going to go back, to refer to what Jim desperately didn't want to dredge up again. He might trust Bones with his deepest, darkest confessions, but that didn’t mean he wanted to _talk_ about them like squealing girls at a sleepover. So he added hastily, “Look—forget I said anything, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t pretend to read my mind, you febrile monkey.” Bones tapped him on the nose with the iPadd, and it made an alarmingly panicked beep and went blank. “Shit!”

“Spock to Captain Kirk."

“Go ahead,” Jim said into his comm breathlessly, after he’d nearly tumbled onto the floor while groping for it in his clothes, still grinning.

“Your presence is requested upon the bridge.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?” Jim was off-shift, so if Spock couldn’t take care of it, it had to be big.

“We have intercepted the Klingon battle-cruiser Negh’var that we encountered eight days ago, and they are demanding to speak to you, Captain.” He sounded cooler than usual, which meant that they’d probably made some choice comments about green-blooded pointy eared weaklings, which, though it didn’t get quite as much mileage as _Hew-man_, was about as stale as month-old plomeek soup. Good thing Klingons seemed to have an honor code about some things, because if they ever resorted to _Yo momma_ insults, Jim didn’t think he, Pike, or even all the theoretical deities in the universe could save them then.

“Be right there,” he sighed. Stupid pesky Klingons. Same shit, different day. He turned to find Bones also dressing. “You’re off-shift, aren't you? You don’t have to come with—”

Bones ignored that and gestured at Jim’s crotch. “Don’t forget to take that off.”

~oOo~

 

Bones’ gift—no, _gesture_—soothed something deep in Jim like cortisone on an itchy rash, and he mostly gave up the idea of holiday celebrations. His subsequent relaxing should have triggered a correspondent easing in the senior staff’s attitudes, but frustratingly, they only seemed to get _shiftier_, like they couldn’t trust Jim’s sudden capitulation. He caught them more than once giving him sidelong glances as he passed them in the hallways, huddled into tight, hushed conversations that ceased when he glanced their way, and they paged away from their console message screens guiltily if he came up behind them suddenly. If he didn’t know better, _trust_ better, he’d think they were planning a mutiny.

He ached to reach a planet, any planet. Contrary to popular opinion, Jim didn’t love away missions, being as they were dangerous, fraught with pissy natives with pointy toys, carnivorous plants, crazy over-sized stampeding monsters, time portals, fountains of youth, distinctly unfriendly terrain, and just all around pain-in-the-assery. But they did provide a break—sporadic vacations in Club Hell—and anything was preferable to this purgatory of whispers and creepy stares and even the occasional tittered giggle. Even Spock had begun to look devious, and Jim had caught him exchanging glances and even a….what could’ve been almost a half-smile with Bones. Spock and Bones, getting along? Life as Jim knew it was surely ending.

He diverted himself with the humdrum routine of daily existence upon a starship. He loved the infinite potential of space, every star a beacon of discovery and adventure that fulfilled in him a nearly unquenchable wanderlust to _boldly go_. But while the Enterprise was ‘boldly going’, a process that could take anywhere from a few hours, days, to even weeks, there really wasn’t much to do or stare at except for the same faces everyday, the same reports to fill out, the same wrangles with Starfleet High Command, the same bland, synthesized food in the mess, and an endless expanse of black outside the viewports only occasionally broken by streaks of light streaming by. Of course, socializing with the crew helped. Jim took to spending more time in the mess, schmoozing with the enlisted ranks, who, with as little care for the doings of the higher-ups as children ignoring the incomprehensible fusses of adults, accepted his increased presence with their usual bluff friendliness and rather more appropriately awed respect than he usually got from his bridge staff.

And, of course, there was Bones. But Bones could only be interrupted in sickbay so many times before he broke out the largest hypospray Jim never wanted to experience again, and they played a deadly game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey around Medical before Jim could escape out the door.

Jim also spent a lot of time on requisition forms, progress reports, and budget proposals. He even sent a number of excruciatingly worded missives to Starfleet High Command, aided by the thesaurus app on his iPadd.

Throughout it all, Bea did not, as Jim half-expected, wither away despite the overabundance of Grinches on the bridge. Instead she grew bushier than ever, developing glittering silver on the tips of every needle like exquisite frosting. She was completely gold now with only occasional hints of fuchsia, and her fragrance clung to their clothes, carried with them everywhere they went like a breeze, but—the tightly furled buds continued, without flowering. Jim found himself checking her obsessively, almost breathless with anticipation for the moment the pregnant buds would burst open.

Jim had never been a plant person before, but he suspected he was now a believer. It didn’t bother him much that he’d apparently been wrong about Bea being an empath.

In hindsight, Jim should've given himself more credit.

~oOo~

 

“You twat,” Bones said from behind him, but his tone was indulgent.

“Holy crap,” Jim said weakly, frozen to the spot because this was beyond his wildest dreams. He was dimly sure that his mouth was gaping open like a fish and that he’d better close it soon, because Bones liked to stick his finger in there for laughs whenever Jim did so.

Spock straightened his shoulders and stepped forward. “Captain,” he said, then seemed to catch himself. “_Jim_. Happy Holidays.”

Bones poked Jim in the back, but gently. “Go on. You’re blockin’ up the doorway.”

Jim moved as if in a dream. He stepped onto the bridge, taking it all in: the dimmed lights, the multicolored tinsel twined around every pole and banister-like appendage, little blinking fairy lights strung up on the ceiling, tidy piles of gifts under Bea, who was decorated with little balls of what looked like colored styrofoam strung on string, and—“How’d you do that?” Jim asked in a queer voice, pointing at the main viewscreen which was currently showcasing a giant, crackling fire and playing a tinny rendition of 'Frosty the Snowman'.

“Aye,” Scotty said, bouncing on his toes, his cheeks reddening with barely restrained glee, “I’m awful proud o’that.” He pointed. “And look, the consoles? Red and green lights? Aren’t I sodding brilliant?”

“Jim? Your reaction does not indicate pleasure.” Spock inclined his head into Jim’s line of vision and raised a worried eyebrow.

“Oh please, the master of the poker face is gonna tell us what Jim’s feeling?”

“You misunderstand the concept of Vulcan control, doctor.” Oooh, that was definitely a _fuck off and die_ look, except Jim was losing a battle against the warmth swelling in his chest and he was too busy trying to stay captain-like and manly and _not_ tear up like a—like a—_not-manly-captain_, to truly appreciate the finer points of Spock and Bones’ old-married-couple bickering.

“_I’ve_ known him way longer than you, and—”

“Shut up you guys. This is _amazing_,” Jim breathed. “Fucking A. You guys threw a Christmas party just for _me_?” All those strange looks, the giggling, the—those sneaky bastards. He beamed at Uhura, who was knitting her eyebrows together as if in hearty disapproval. “Not Christmas, Captain,” she told him severely, betrayed by her lips that twitched upwards as if tugged by marionette strings. She nudged Spock pointedly, who broke off his eyebrow staring contest with Bones.

“Jim,” he said, in stately grandeur and obviously practiced speechifying cadence, “it was drawn to our attention that the captain of a starship has the prerogative to establish any new traditions on board that he may deem necessary and beneficial to the morale of the crew. As such, we have chosen to acknowledge and support your attempts, and have taken the liberty of allowing each department to rotate shifts so they may also indulge in a similar fashion as you see here on the bri—”

Bones had been bouncing on his toes impatiently. “For fuck’s sake, Spock,” he growled. “I told you to make a speech, not to put us to sleep.”

“Wait—you made them do this?” Jim’s joy rapidly ebbed, replaced with a cold feeling in his gut. He hadn’t told Bones what he’d told him just so Bones could bully everyone into indulging Jim just this once to make him feel better. “I don’t need a pity party, thanks,” he said with bitter sarcasm.

“Captain,” Spock broke in, his eyebrows doing things that made him look almost…startled. “We had already begun considering that we were in the wrong in our reaction to your enthusiasm, but Doctor McCoy only…” words seemed to fail him for a moment. “ah—added…motivation.”

“I didn’t tell them anything, Jim,” Bones said.

“He was scary!” Chekov supplied.

“Only enough to light a fire under your asses,” Bones conceded, which was definitely not denying that newer, more easily frightened recruits sometimes dodged down vertical jeffries tubes when they saw him coming. Sulu coughed.

“Which is to say, our decision to indeed adapt the traditional Terran holiday season had very little to do with pity,” Spock said. “It is my understanding that the underlying motivation for these celebrations, and indeed, most celebrations in other cultures, is to affirm the importance of close relations between those who share genetic—”

“What he means to say is, it’s about family, Captain,” Uhura said, the normally Jim-caused harsh lines of her lips softened. “And the Enterprise is family. For some of us, all we’ve got.” She smiled then, joyous and fiercely bright like Jim had never seen before, and she reached out and gripped Spock's hand. Spock blinked, then twined his fingers more firmly with hers and added, "Indeed."

Jim had to swallow around a thick lump in his throat, blinking hard against the burn in his eyes. He managed to strangle out a shaky, “Thanks, guys,” when there was a sound like the popping of bubble-wrap and an audible exhale.

They focused on Bea just in time to see her bursting into full blossom, rounded, fat buds exploding into golden frilly petals unfurling in exquisitely synchronized time. They had one moment to gasp in delight before the explosions of gold and silver was accompanied by golden, sparkling pollen flung into the room in waves of shimmering mist. It whirled in the air like fairy dust and fell on every surface, illumining the edges in glittering luminescence, and engulfed the crew.

~oOo~  
_Epilogue_

“What’s the point of having drills if none of you think to go for the emergency filter masks?” Bones griped, but his words held no real heat. His voice was muffled.

So this was sex pollen, Jim thought. Huh. This time, it was…sort of nice. A definite improvement on the last time, since this time there was no insatiable urge to hump himself into a coma. There _were_ hazy, multicolored confetti lights dancing around in the corona of his vision, his brain felt like it'd expanded three sizes and was floating outside his skull, and he was feeling pretty happy like his skin had grown _fingers_ and wanted to touch….like, _everything_. And if that wasn’t evidence that he was high, then suddenly talking in like, totally Californian valley girl dialect like, _totally_ was. “I don’t know why you’re still wearing that mask, Bones, considering you’re just as high as the rest of us,” he said lazily.

“Might limit my exposure or something,” Bones said. His head was resting against Jim’s knee like it was too heavy to lift. “Hey, are my teeth still there? I can’t feel my teeth.”

Spock twitched and uttered a harsh bark of laughter. “That’s illogical.”

“Uhura, I order you to make your boyfriend _stop saying that_.” Jim waved a finger in her direction in an authoritative manner.

“That’s illogical.” Spock repeated and gave that jagged laugh again, methodically reaching for another cookie. “Illogical,” he murmured meditatively as he chewed. He’d nearly finished the entire plate of cookies Uhura had baked, and he showed no signs of slowing down, his glazed, unseeing eyes on the tray full of cakes and pies on the other side of Jim. Uhura didn’t reply or move her head from Spock’s lap, only lifting a hand ever so often to wipe crumbs off her forehead. "_You're_ illogical," Jim muttered, and barely caught himself before escalating it to the next level with, _Your momma's illogical._

Chekov emitted a high-pitched giggle and listed sideways out of his chair and started rubbing his cheek against the floor.

Jim slouched further down in his chair to he could poke Chekov with his toe. “Sulu, what the fuck is going on here, botany dude?”

Sulu’s irises had blown to the size of mismatched dinner plates. It turned out, as he rambled, Jim hadn’t been the only or first one to notice that Bea was…special. He and Chekov had been doing their usual Galaxy of Warcraft LAN party at their consoles after the rest of the bridge crew had signed off, and Chekov had turned to him and grinned and then his character had gone up to Sulu’s and…._humped_ it. Apparently Chekov had hacked the game. After that things had heated, fantasy melting into reality, and before they knew it, Chekov was pushing Sulu onto the floor, a bony hand pushing into Sulu’s unzipped fly, his mouth sucking a hard bite into Sulu’s cheek because his aim went when he was distracted, and his wet tongue was sliding—

“_Okay!_ Okay,” Jim winced, holding up a hand. “There’s a cliché used for situations like this, and that’s _Too Much Information_.” Jim wasn’t normally against free porn in any form, but come on, he had to look them in the eye everyday. He didn’t want the image of Chekov’s freckled, pale skin contrasting with Sulu’s golden—Oh god, it was in his _head_. His brain_space_. _His virginal brainpan_. “Move on. Please.”

Chekov had grinned at the ceiling throughout the recounting. Scotty lay somewhere behind Jim’s chair and lamented, “Nobody loves poor Scotty.”

“Uh, so,” Sulu coughed, visibly pulling himself back from the no-man’s-land of pornographic memory. “Where was I?”

“Busy violating Starfleet regs regarding fraternization on the bridge, in particular 291b, subsection 6—or is that 3?” Sulu gave him a look that clearly stated _Pot, meet a kettle named black_ and Jim grinned a little. Touché . Bones had worked a finger up under his mask and was poking around in his mouth, clearly divorced from the very, very important discussion Jim was having with the only semi-functional member of Team Science left on the bridge. “Sex pollen, Hikaru.”

“S’not _sex_ pollen, Cap,” Sulu pronounced, that crooked parting of lips even more wry and sarcastically amused than usual. “It's like, happy pollen. You feel like having sex?”

Jim evaluated. Though it was increasingly hard to think, and he was rubbing himself like a cat all over his chair because god, the warm pliancy of the synth-leather felt so good against the harsher fabric of his uniform against his skin and Bones’ hair under his combing fingers was so perfectly orgasmic—“My whole body feels like a penis,” he declared.

“That’s illogical!” Spock informed the bridge at large.

“This is the best Christmas ever,” Jim sighed happily.

Bea just sat there, branches waving slightly, and glittered.


End file.
